


we started a fire (with the faintest of sparks)

by decideophobia



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-14 15:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18479491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decideophobia/pseuds/decideophobia
Summary: It’s been a mess, really, between all the things that still needed fixing and all of their unpacked or half-unpacked boxes. Quentin had suggested they cast a sort of interior design spell for arranging all their stuff when the apartment was done, but Eliot insisted they decorate and arrange everything themselves.This is our place, Q, I wantusto do it.Which had been so sweet, Quentin felt like turning into a gooey puddle offeelingsright at Eliot’s feet.





	we started a fire (with the faintest of sparks)

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt: Eliot and Q sharing a soft moment outside under the stars**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> So, I've leapt into The Magicians fandom, discovered Queliot, and now I am down a deep, deep rabbit hole with no fucking way back out (which isn't as bad as it sounds). Anyway, this is my first Magicians/Queliot fic, so this could be a lil bit rocky. Be patient with me, I'm still getting into their voices.
> 
> My Sterek peeps, I urge you to watch The Magicians. You won't regret it.

**Prompt: Eliot and Q sharing a soft moment outside under the stars**

Quentin practically falls through the door, losing his footing completely as it’s thrown open by Eliot from inside. Eliot catches him, though, wraps his arms around him in a secure hold, and it sends a thrill through Quentin’s body, Eliot’s seemingly casual strength. 

“Eliot, what—” He stumbles over his words, suddenly anxious in the face of Eliot’s impatient urgency. “What’s wrong?”

Quentin quickly scans down his body to check for injury before he looks up, eyes fixing on Eliot’s face. The tumult in his gut settles instantaneously as he takes in the giddy expression on his face, carefree and excited. So it’s—something else. Quentin lets out a relieved breath.

“Oh, they delivered the wrong tiles for the bathroom, and the wiring in the kitchen is off,” Eliot says, mimicking a throw-away motion with his hand. He pulls the strap of Quentin’s bag off his shoulder, lets it drop to the floor carelessly before grabbing both of his hands. Eliot starts walking backwards, pulls Quentin along with him. “I’ll get it fixed with a spell tomorrow because we are _not_ spending any more money on incompetent muggles.”

“Uh,” Quentin makes, stumbling after Eliot. 

They moved into the apartment only a week ago and there’s still a lot work that needs to be done. Quentin is surprised Eliot went along with non-magical solutions so far. Now, he doesn’t mind Eliot using magic to fix the wiring in the kitchen. The electrician they’ve hired has been there twice already and it still wasn’t any better, and Eliot had almost turned him into a leech the first time around. 

It’s been a mess, really, between all the things that still needed fixing and all of their unpacked or half-unpacked boxes. Quentin had suggested they cast a sort of interior design spell for arranging all their stuff when the apartment was done, but Eliot insisted they decorate and arrange everything themselves. _This is our place, Q, I want_ us _to do it._ Which had been so sweet, Quentin felt like turning into a gooey puddle of _feelings_ right at Eliot’s feet. 

When they round the corner to their living room/kitchen— _it’s called open concept, babe_ —Quentin sucks in a surprised breath. Most of the space right in the middle had been cleared up, pieces of furniture and boxes pushed to the side to make room for a huge patch of soft-looking grass. A seemingly never-ending string of fairy lights ran around the spot, illuminating the space in soft light. There’s pillows and a blanket laid out, a plate with little snacks and delicious smelling finger foods, a bottle of wine. What truly takes his breath away, though, is the ceiling—or rather, what’s there instead of it.

Instead of it, there’s the night sky spanning across the entirety of the room, lit up with stars, endless and all-engulfing, as if he was standing outside somewhere—somewhere far away from New York, where there wasn’t any city around for miles and miles. He doesn’t even notice his mouth having dropped open in awe before Eliot puts two fingers to his chin and slowly closes it.

When Quentin manages to tear his gaze away from the cei—the sk—the—when he manages to tear his gaze away and look up at Eliot’s face, he sees him smiling a soft and happy little smile, pride and affection in his eyes. He weaves an arm around Quentin’s shoulder, pulling him in close against his side as he presses a kiss against his temple.

“Starstruck?” Eliot asks him, chuckling at his own pun. Quentin _is_.

“El—” he starts, words dying on his tongue, as he feels something huge and warm and happy grow behind his ribcage, threatening to burst, too small to contain everything that he’s swelling there. “I’m—”

“I know, baby,” Eliot says, simple, easy, so _fond_. He wraps both of his hands around one of Quentin’s and guides him through a little path between the boxes to the blanket on the grass, never taking his eyes off his face, as if he’s hungry to catalogue all of Quentin’s micro-reactions to the scene before him. 

Quentin stops right in front of the grass while Eliot steps on it—Quentin sees he’s barefoot looking down—and sits down in one fluid, elegant motion. He lazily flicks his fingers to uncork the wine, and Quentin stares, mesmerized. It’s not the first time that all of Eliot captivates him, seems to freeze him in time and motion, and it always overwhelms him. The fact that it still happens, after a lifetime together, sends his heartbeat skyrocketing, every time. 

There are so many things that are wrong, still, his brain tells him more often than not, but this—he knows it with a deep-sitting unencumbered certainty—this, _Eliot_ , his life with him, is right, is _good_ , in more than only one life.

“Q, you’re starting to worry me,” Eliot says finally, one eyebrow slightly raised, as he pours wine into a glass. “Lift your arms over your head, I need to check if you’re having a stroke.”

There’s a shit-eating little smirk tugging just at the corner of his mouth, though. Quentin rolls his eyes.

“Ha _ha_.”

Quentin kicks his shoes off and strips out of his socks before plopping down on the blanket next to Eliot who’s handing him the glass. 

“What—what is this all for?” Quentin asks, finally, watching Eliot pour himself a glass of wine.

“A romantic pseudo-getaway, obviously,” Eliot answers with a look of amusement and incredulity. “I mean, I would’ve driven us out somewhere but since you’re not getting into a car with me anymore, I had to get creative.”

Quentin hadn’t even known Eliot could drive until it happened and—it’s not something he’s going to revisit.

Eliot says it with an air of offense, waving his free hand around and rolling his eyes at the same time. He smiles at Quentin, though, a knowing little smirk, teasing.

“El, this is—I mean—this is—it’s, uh, incredible. You—this is beautiful.”

Eliot sits up a little straighter, puffs out his chest, always fucking blooming under Quentin’s praise. 

“Why, though?” Quentin asks, furrowing his brows. He quickly goes through important dates in his head and he hasn’t missed anything major.

Eliot twists his lips into a painfully fond expression as he reaches out to gently brush a strand of hair out of Quentin’s eyes, fingers lingering against his temple, stroking a thumb gingerly under his eye. 

“You’ve been working so much,” he replies, scooches closer, and Quentin’s whole body aches with the need to be wrapped up in Eliot’s. “Wanted to give you a break.”

Eliot slides his hand to Quentin’s neck, face lit up so lovely by the fairy lights around them and the stars above, a smile on his lips that leaves Quentin devastatingly breathless. He closes the distance, lips settling on Quentin’s, for a kiss that is so sweet, so soft, so languid that Quentin feels like vibrating out of his skin with the sheer affection it carries. Eliot’s thumb brushes along his jaw, rubbing at the skin ever so slightly, and for a moment, the storm of thoughts in his head calms utterly, completely. 

Before pulling back, Eliot drops another quick kiss on his lips. “Plus, I wanted you to nerd out on me about the stars and the enchanted ceiling, and basically anything that crosses your mind.”

Eliot puts his glass down and lies back, pulling Quentin along with him, until Quentin’s head is pillowed sideways on his chest and he can slide one of his hands into hair, while tangling the fingers of his other hand with Quentin’s. 

“Are you sure?” Quentin knows he shouldn’t ask. He knows the answer anyway but still, he can’t help himself.

Eliot brings their hands up to his lips, pressing a warm kiss to his knuckles. “Q, I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life than I am about you.”

And Quentin knows that. He does. He knows because Eliot shows him that every day. Hearing him say it, though, so confidently, so easily—and Quentin knows it hasn’t always been that easy for Eliot—makes his heart soar.

Quentin answers, “I love you,” and Eliot hums with pleasure, not saying anything in return. 

Because he knows, too.


End file.
